


Masquerade

by ladylapislazuli



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Masquerade, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylapislazuli/pseuds/ladylapislazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something about tonight that loosens his tongue, makes the consequences seem unreal, a distant and intangible future swept away as though it were a dream.</p><p>Before tonight, he has never dared to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ingu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/gifts).



> This was written as a gift for the lovely [Ingu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu). Happy birthday!

The night is warm.

 

The air is filled with the scent of sweet blossoms. There is lively music on the wind, cries of laughter and the chinking of cups, but most of all there is the dancing. In and out, to and fro, people weave and wind and whirl in unknown patterns, joining hands with a stranger one moment then gone the next. They are all strangers, in truth. At least for tonight. Tonight they wear disguises, decorated masks covering their eyes. Tonight, they have no friends, no enemies, no identity beyond the mask on their faces, lost in a crowd of glitter and silk and the heat of bodies moving together. It is intoxicating, in its way. No responsibilities, no expectations, not even a name. Just the dancing.

 

For some, at least.

 

Thor walks around the perimeter, a delicate glass of spiced liquor in his hand, observing rather than losing himself in the revelry.

 

He feels strange, tonight. There is some itch in his skin, some need that he does not recognise, some passion he cannot sate. He feels hot, cold, _lost_ , like he is searching for something he cannot find, some flickering shadow just beyond his reach.

 

It must be the wine. It is a strange concoction, spicy yet slipping like velvet down his throat, warming him from the inside even as it brings a strange shivering to his skin. He wants to run, to dance, to let go of his inhibitions and throw himself into the music. He wants to hide, to sleep, to sequester himself away in a corner where nobody can see him and just _listen_ , just look at the night sky, just _feel_ the world around him.

 

Most of all, he wants pale limbs wrapping around him, dark hair spreading like ink beneath his fingertips, clever lips whispering in his ear in the dark hours of the night as they lie locked away where nobody can find them, hidden from reproachful eyes.

 

It _must_ be the wine.

 

Such a brew has never been seen on Asgard before, he is sure of it. He has never felt this tingling restlessness in his spine, his skin so sensitive to every breath of wind, every touch of fabric caressing him as someone else slips by. Lovers chase one another tonight, in the open and indiscreet, taking their pleasure under the open sky. It does not surprise him, and he feels no compulsion to look. It is not modesty that makes him avert his eyes, not embarrassment or disgust. Just a strange, languid disinterest.

 

He feels almost like a different man, graceful where he should be bold, prowling in the shadows when he should be dancing and revelling and wild. He should not be caught in this strange state of contemplation, lucid yet intoxicated all the same. He should not feel so thoroughly detached.

 

But surely that cannot be the wine. He has not drunk enough for that.

 

Perhaps it is the mask. A beautiful thing, delicate yet strong, all hard lines and sharp angles, feathers of the brightest red and trimmed by golden leaf. It is a magnificent creation, bold and captivating, covering his face down to his lips. It is made all the more striking by the jet black of his clothes, black covering him from his shoulders right down to his gleaming leather boots. His hair is pulled up high, kept in place by a single band. Even his face is smooth-shaven, for tonight he may disguise himself, cast aside the garb of prince and be nothing more than a man.

 

He is nobody, now. Not tonight. The thought is somehow heady. He has no duties to attend, no dignitaries to entertain, no need to school his features. He smiles, and allows himself to meander, abandoning his usual purposeful stride and letting his steps lead him wherever they may. They are far from the palace, hidden from watchful eyes, removed from the expectations that Thor, as a prince, must fulfil. Tonight he can be purposeless, directionless, walking unnoticed through a crowd of strangers, jostled about in a way nobody would dare jostle the crown prince of Asgard.

 

It comes as a relief.

 

He makes way for a group of men and women as they go tittering by, stepping back until he feels himself bump into a solid weight behind him. He startles, an apology already on his lips as he turns, only to have his breath die in his throat.

 

The young man’s hair is so fair it is almost white, his mask one of peacock feathers and silver trim, his lips quirked into a smirk.

 

He is beautiful.

 

He beckons, holds out his hands, and Thor takes them without thought. He goes willingly into the young man’s arms, moving into a dance, the young man weaving and whirling with a lithe grace Thor could never hope to replicate. He dances with such speed, effortlessly graceful yet so fast he is almost dizzying. Bewitching. He is all clever fingers and quick hands, brushing against Thor’s wrist and neck, stroking down his spine before dancing away, teasing brushes and taunting caresses.

 

Thor moves as if in a dream, dancing without thought, his eyes fixed on his partner for fear that he might flit away. His hands reach out to tug the man in closer, where Thor can run fingers through his hair, tilt his chin up in a caress while a slow smile spreads across those wicked lips. The man allows it, and when he begins to dance again they are pressed flush against one another, chest to chest, Thor’s arm wrapping around his waist as the other hand settles against the pale line of the man’s throat.

 

The man chuckles low in his chest, and it sends a rush of heat through Thor’s veins.

 

“Loki,” Thor breathes, almost without meaning to.

 

Loki throws back his head and laughs, slipping out of Thor’s grip to dance, lithe and supple under the light of the moon and the light from the bonfire, and Thor is mesmerised.

 

“So you _do_ know me,” Loki says. The music seems to be growing louder, the crowd wilder. Perhaps it is simply that Thor’s heart is pounding now, racing, the festival pouring the same wild abandon into his chest as those around him. It makes him reckless, foolish. Honest.

 

Loki’s beauty, concealed though it is under both magic and mask, is maddening.

 

Thor grabs for him again, but Loki all too easily dances away, a bird flitting around the head of a bear. He presses up so close behind Thor that he can feel the warmth of his flesh against his back, between his shoulders, and his chest and arms feel achingly cold for Loki’s absence. He turns, but Loki has darted away again, laughing as Thor’s arms clutch at empty air, green eyes glinting and lips pulled into a mocking smirk, something cruel in the curl of his lip.

 

Still, the sound of Loki’s laugh is warm, low, real. Loki mocks him, taunts him, teases Thor for his own amusement, but his laughter is true. For that laugh, Thor would be made a fool a thousand times over.

 

“Come, brother, you are not dancing,” Loki says, and suddenly he is in Thor’s arms again and they are twirling, winding, Loki’s body pressed against his. Loki is so warm, for all his cruelty, and Thor’s hands trace from between his shoulders to the base of his spine, mapping the sharp angles of his body, touching him as he has never dared to touch. He can feel every graceful movement of Loki’s frame beneath his finger tips, every undulation as Loki presses in close. Loki’s eyes are glittering, so very, very green, his hair once more its natural raven black, his breath ghosting over Thor’s lips.

 

Loki is so thin, so pale, yet he moves with a precision that comes only with power and command, with strength and dexterity.

 

He is like a swan, Thor thinks, a helpless, giddy smile on his lips, his heart rabbit-fast in his chest. Perhaps a serpent would be a more apt comparison, certainly in the eyes of the Court. Loki Silver-tongue, _snake_ -tongue, slithering through the halls with venom in his teeth. And there is something seductive, he thinks, in the motion of a serpent, its glide from side to side, the way it rolls and writhes with such elegance even as it strikes fear into the hearts of the bravest men.

 

There is something else, though, in the elegant arch of Loki’s neck, the strange beauty in every line of his body. He is an odd creature, foreign. He dances like a swan moving on the water, ethereal and otherworldly in his grace, born of another place and another time. And he flounders where Thor excels, drowns in the drinking and feasting and fighting of Asgardian culture. He is a creature of the water where Thor is a creature of the land, joined yet eternally separate, for just as Loki lacks grace on the land Thor would flounder in the water.

 

Loki is not of Asgard. A bird with its wings clipped, a swan without a lake, a creature of grace never allowed to truly flourish. And still, he is beautiful.

 

He would mock Thor if he heard his thoughts. Would chide and taunt and take offence. He would tell Thor himself that he is a serpent, for Loki uses barbs as though they are shields, twists the remarks Asgard throws at him until they become his own, even as resentment burrows deep inside his chest. He would say Thor considers him weak, womanly, _helpless_. He would think Thor means it as an insult, for a swan is considered a feminine creature, and Loki receives more than his fair share of mockery for his refusal to play the typical Asgardian man. He would think Thor underestimates his strength, think in Thor’s eyes he is not worthy, that he is _less_ , but Thor does not think any of those things.

 

He just thinks Loki is beautiful, for all his strangeness, and there is no creature more beautiful than a swan.

 

Thor is too sentimental, he knows that well. He knows better than anyone of Loki’s cruelty, his coldness, his hate. Yet here is Loki now, a warm body in his arms, eyes bright and lips teasing, and Thor cannot hope to resist.

 

“Give me a kiss,” he says, low and rough and wanting, his heart pounding in his throat.

 

Loki’s eyes widen behind his mask, and Thor wonders if he has gone too far, asked too much. There is no way Loki can mistake his tone as playful, no way to ignore the line Thor has crossed. He is long past propriety. There is something about tonight that loosens his tongue, makes the consequences seem unreal, a distant and intangible future swept away as though it were a dream.

 

Before tonight, he has never dared to ask. Loki is his brother, raised and deeply loved, and Thor will never let that bond die for all Loki’s attempts to break it. He did not wish to sully it with the way he aches to touch Loki in ways no brother should want to touch. Thor is no stranger to holding his tongue, to restraining his impulses, to biting his lip and clamping down the yearning of his heart, but now he cannot help it. He just _wants_ , would take anything Loki would give him, anything at all.

 

He thinks Loki knows.

 

Loki’s lips quirk and he darts forward, so swiftly and smoothly Thor barely has time to react. His lips flutter against Thor’s cheek, brushing only the very corner of Thor’s mouth in a whisper of a caress. Thor moves his head to catch them, but Loki is already gone, his eyes gleaming in the light of the bonfire.

 

Perhaps Thor should be afraid, for Loki is so effortlessly cruel. Instead, Thor rises to the challenge.

 

He reaches out to grab Loki, with more force perhaps than is necessary, but it makes no difference. Loki has already whirled away, standing behind him with his hand pressed lightly to Thor’s shoulder and his lips caressing the shell of his ear.

 

“Come and find me, if you can,” he purrs, and Thor’s eyes close helplessly as he draws in a shuddering breath at the touch, yearning to pull Loki against him and just kiss him until he surrenders, until he loves Thor, needs him, the way Thor needs Loki.

 

When he opens his eyes, Loki is gone.

 

Thor does not despair, though. Instead, his heart begins to pump with excitement, a strange exhilaration spreading into every muscle of his body. He feels reckless, intoxicated, vulnerable, but cannot find it within himself to care when the warmth of Loki’s touch is still a phantom breath against his skin. Loki has accepted him. Perhaps he merely teases, plays with Thor because it amuses him, because he _can_ , but it is better than any of Thor’s other imaginings. It is not betrayal or disgust or fear. Loki wishes to play, and Thor will readily oblige him, will gladly endure Loki’s mockery if it means he can have Loki in his arms again, Loki’s lips against his.

 

Every beat of Thor’s foolish heart is telling him that somehow, impossibly, Loki loves him back.

 

Thor stalks through the crowd, strides long and sure now he has purpose, eyes roving left and right. They move over tangled limbs and seductive smiles, passing them by almost without thought, searching only for his quarry.

 

He is too reckless, by far. He takes great liberty, for all of Asgard to see. Yet somehow he does not care, _cannot_ care, too lost in the wildness of the night, too captivated by Loki himself. Their masks conceal them in plain view, so tonight Thor may pursue Loki as a lover, chase him round and round in an endless game of cat and mouse.

 

It is Thor who gives chase, but somehow he thinks he might be the prey.

 

The music has changed. Softened. It is slower, more rhythmic, a slow pulse pounding through the air. Thor wonders if it is Loki’s doing, for it is distracting, confounding, the dancers turning into a writhing mass of limbs as he moves through them, dancing in a kind of collective madness, an abandonment of sense and propriety as they gyrate to the rhythm of the music, arms in the air, moving in one, long, sensual roll.

 

He does not know where they learned to dance this way. Asgard’s dances are all formal things, with strict steps and timing, uptight and stuffy in a way he had loathed when he was a boy. Back straight, one arm behind him and the other on his partner’s waist, now step, step, step. This dance is unlike any Asgard has seen before, or will likely see again when his father gets wind of it. If they did not wear masks, the dancers would never dare to be so bold.

 

If he did not wear a mask, Thor would never dare chase Loki as he chases him now, chases him as a lover playing a game, chases him so that he may press kisses to his lips for all of Asgard to see.

 

Those old rules did not matter tonight.

 

Yet even as Thor weaves back and forth, up and down, he can see no trace of him, no flash of Loki’s blue mask. It feels like he has been searching for hours, his throat dry and his feet sore, and he growls, frustration bright and sudden bubbling up in his chest, patience all of a sudden worn thin.

 

“Having trouble?” a voice whispers at his ear.

 

Thor whirls, catching sight of a curvaceous female body with a bright shock of red hair slipping into the crowd, a very familiar smirk playing on her comely lips. _Loki_.

 

Even as he searched for Loki, Loki had watched him, waited, disguised more thoroughly than a simple mask covering his face.

 

A new wave of frustration wells up in Thor’s chest, at both Loki’s mockery and the time Thor himself has wasted. Loki has no doubt been laughing at him as he stumbles about, only emerging to taunt Thor for his failure, knowing full well that Thor would not think to search for a new disguise.

 

Thor will not be so fooled again.

 

He pulls back, further away from the crowd this time, stalking around the perimeter once more. He does not look for a blue mask and dark hair, but for something far less tangible, some jut of a hip or flex of a shoulder, some quirk of a brow or purring laugh that belongs only to his brother.

 

It is not an easy task, but Thor knows his brother well. Better, perhaps, than even Loki realises. He will find Loki. No matter how long it takes him or how far Loki has strayed. He always does.

 

There are three that catch his attention, excitement rushing through him every time he thinks he has found Loki, followed by the inevitable wave of disappointment. Closer observation, watching and waiting in a way that is all but foreign to him, proves his hopes false. The first is dismissed for the honking sound of his laughter, for even in disguise Loki is vain, and would never allow himself to bray and snort. The second is chosen for the feline grace with which she dances, but dismissed in turn for being too brash, too sensual, for Loki’s seduction is insidious where hers is blatantly carnal. The third is a boy little more than a child, looking about him with smirking amusement painted on his lips, but that amusement turns to horror when he is recognised by his angry and disapproving mother, and Thor must turn away.

 

“You really aren’t very good at this, are you?” Loki says to his left. Thor whirls to catch a glimpse of him, but this time Loki does not run away, standing with his arms folded and that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. The sight of him brings Thor up short.

 

Loki is dressed in black and green now, his usual colours, but his clothing fits him in ways Loki does not usually allow. Loki is all too aware of the difference between his slender frame and Thor’s, the lean lines that mark him a sorcerer rather than a warrior, that mark him as an outsider. Tonight, his clothing fits him like a glove, bordering in truth on the indecent. Thor’s mouth feels suddenly very dry. Sleek black clings to every jut of Loki’s body, showing off the narrow hips and even narrower waist, the broadness of his shoulders, the long, endless lines of his legs. He is lithe, elegant, and Thor’s blood pounds, every fibre of his being overwhelmed by the desperate need to _touch_ , his breath coming fast and his lips thoughtlessly parted in admiration.

 

A slow grin spreads over Loki’s face, eyes gleaming cruelly beneath his mask, and Thor is readying to move before the thought has even registered in his mind.

 

“Now, now, don’t be hasty,” Loki says, raising a taunting finger when Thor’s muscles clench in preparation to lunge for him again, like a dog leaping for his master, all strength and enthusiasm but little finesse.

 

Thor stills himself, and waits.

 

Loki tilts his head to the side, observing Thor as though he is some sort of oddity, eyeing him the same way he would an artefact of some kind. Intrigued, but indifferent. Unmoved.

 

Thor can change that.

 

He moves forward, slowly this time, slow enough that Loki has time to understand his intention. Loki does not move away. He allows Thor to catch him by the waist and pull him closer, and Thor knows full well that he would have not been able to if Loki had not let him, knows that Loki could slip away the moment he so chooses, and Thor could not stop him. The thought makes him grab Loki tighter, hold him fast, trying to tell Loki with his body that Thor means this, that Thor needs him, that every moment without Loki in his arms is a dagger in Thor’s breast. As though somehow Loki does not already know.

 

Thor leans in, eyes fixed on Loki’s, and for a moment his heart is so full it might burst. Loki stares back as though it is a challenge, unyielding, Thor’s equal in every respect. For a moment there is something akin to aggression rising in Loki’s skin, some fire burning in his eyes as he glances down at Thor’s lips, as though even in this they must struggle for dominance, as though his kisses will be as harsh as a blow.

 

But then Loki looks at him, _really_ looks at him, something in his eyes softening as the fire fades to a gentler glow.

 

It is too much.

 

Thor kisses him, fervent, eager, a little clumsy at first, but when Loki tilts his head just so it morphs into something else. Something heady, exciting, a promise and a secret all at once, a declaration and a balm to all the wounds they have done one another. Loki’s lips are soft despite the harsh words they so often form, despite the unkindness of his smiles and the calculated cruelty of his lies. Thor’s heart is pounding so hard his chest aches with it, his breath catching in his throat. He swears his hands must be shaking, but they are steady against the smooth skin of Loki’s cheeks, careful as they caress Loki’s dark hair.

 

It is just a kiss. Just a press of one mouth to another, a physical expression of warmth and affection, of love and of lust alike. Yet it feels like an oath branded into his skin.

 

In this moment, Thor is certain. Perhaps he will question it on the morrow, shake his head and wonder at the strange delirium he had fallen into, but not tonight. Tonight he can be foolish, reckless, sentimental beyond all rhyme and reason, passionate to the point of madness.

 

Tonight he is Loki’s, only Loki’s. Loki is every breath, every wish, every desire. He is all Thor needs and everything Thor has ever wanted, damn the crown, damn his parents and Asgard and anyone who would stand in Thor’s way. If he cannot have Loki, his hand, his heart, his body, cannot wake to him every morning and fall asleep beside him every night, then Thor will surely die.

 

Loki pulls back, pressing a long finger over Thor’s lips when he tries to catch him in another kiss. His eyes are so dark, parted lips so very, very red against the pale expanse of his skin. His touch turns to a caress, long fingers brushing down the curve of Thor’s jaw, teasing around the edges of Thor’s mask. His breathing is unsteady, and when he swallows Thor’s gaze is drawn to the smooth line of his neck.

 

He tips Loki’s head back without thinking, tangling his fingers in Loki’s hair and pressing a reverent kiss to his throat, and Loki _lets_ him. Tilts his head back willingly, breathes in a sharp intake of air when Thor’s lips touch his skin, his hands cupping the back of Thor’s head.

 

Thor can _smell_ him now, breathe in the subtle fragrance of Loki’s cologne. It is a masculine yet delicate smell, musky yet sweet, so faint Thor cannot hope to put a name to it even as he nuzzles closer, breathing it in. It is as intoxicating as Loki himself, distant yet distracting, captivating for all its subtlety.

 

Thor breathes him in, and it feels like he is drowning.

 

He presses another kiss to Loki’s skin, urgent and needy, and though Loki’s neck is bared it is Thor who is in the vulnerable position. There is no masking the depth of his ardour, the intensity of his infatuation, as he presses his desperate love into Loki’s pale, fragile throat. After tonight, he will have no way to hide, nowhere to run, the fervour of his affection placed in Loki’s hands to do with as he pleases.

 

Thor should be terrified.

 

He needs this too much to care.

 

Loki’s hands cup his cheeks, guiding him back up, and they are kissing again, over and over, hot and desperate, and Thor thinks that Loki loves him, needs him the same way Thor needs Loki, has longed and yearned and ached for him for all these long years. That Thor has haunted Loki’s every dream, distracted every waking moment, stolen his heart so thoroughly that there can be no other, won him so completely that he cannot bear the separation the years have brought them, cannot bear to be without him any longer.

 

It is wishful thinking. Loki is as changing as the tides, his affection eternally fickle. His attention is so easily drawn away, to spells and power and games Thor cannot hope to comprehend. Loki spurns Thor when he pursues his company, resents him when he does not, mocks when Thor cries and then cries when Thor teases him in turn. He demands every ounce of forgiveness Thor can find it in himself to give, yet guards his own resentments jealously, refusing to forgive no matter what Thor does or how desperately Thor begs him for absolution. Loki wields his kindness like a weapon, weaves it around Thor’s neck like a chain. He loves Thor, hates him, torments him because he enjoys it, protects him because he cannot stand to see Thor hurt, even though Thor has been hurt a hundred times by Loki’s hand.

 

He will never be capable of giving Thor what he needs, of loving Thor the way Thor needs to be loved.

 

But merciful heavens, Thor loves him.

 

“Loki,” he breathes against his lips, both surrender and prayer.

 

Loki answers him with another kiss, warm and soft and yielding, and Thor wonders if this is an illusion after all, for Loki is as hard and impenetrable as the ice of the world that bore him. Even in the sweetest of his fantasies, Loki has never yielded so readily, given so easily, taken all the love Thor has to give him and given it back, in turn.

 

But then, Loki has always been contradictory.

Overwhelmed, he presses his forehead against Loki’s, the quiet intimacy of the gesture somewhat impeded by their masks, but it does not matter. Thor just closes his eyes, breathes out a shuddering breath, basks in the feeling of Loki pressed up against him. It is as though some piece has slotted into place, as if a lingering, aching loneliness that had gone unnoticed, so long had it been branded on his heart, has finally dissipated, fading away in the bliss of Loki’s arms. He thinks he could live out the rest of his days this way, nothing but Loki and the sweet night air, and he would die a happy man.

 

Loki is everything, he thinks, and whether it is the headiness of the night or the truth he hides in the very depths of his heart, he cannot not say. Loki is the moon and sun and stars, grass and trees and sky, every breath of fresh air and every burst of music. His dove, his nightingale, his swan. Everything Thor has ever wanted or needed or craved for, everything that he has wept and bled for, for just as Loki is his heart’s beloved he is also its fatal strike. No one can hurt Thor the way Loki can, rend him apart from the insides, destroy him with nothing more than a word thrown in passing from those perfect, cruel lips. He is Thor’s saviour and his ruin, for what is Thor without Loki? What is Thor without the very dearest to his heart, without his opposite, without his match?

 

In all his wildest dreams, Thor had never known it would feel like this.

 

He trembles with it, every breath a shuddering sigh, every nerve on fire, every brush of Loki’s skin setting his insides ablaze and his heart skittering, thump-thump-thumping as though racing to catch the beating of Loki’s own.

 

He feels the sweetness of a caress on his cheeks, spidery fingers tilting his jaw back up, and he goes with it without thought or question, caught in the maelstrom that is Loki, obedient to his every whim. Loki’s eyes are shining, green as grass, as leaves, as poison, and he presses a lingering kiss to Thor’s lips, catching them in the gentlest of kisses. It is like an embrace in an of itself, and Thor feels himself falling, yielding to the gentleness of Loki’s lips against his, stripped to his barest self at Loki’s feet. For here is his greatest vulnerability, his strength, his weakness. He is without armour, without defence, rendered helpless by the touch of Loki’s lips.

 

He would do anything. Anything to keep this. Anything.

 

And then, with barely a whisper of air, Loki is gone.

 

Thor’s eyes snap open at the sudden cold, and for a moment he is struck dumb, head moving uselessly left and right as though Loki has merely stepped away. It is no use. Thor finds himself alone at the edge of the crowd, lips tingling, but arms empty. Loki is gone again, vanished, but the crowd still dances, the music still pulses. The sound, which he had barely noticed when he was caught up in Loki, is suddenly overwhelming, a pressure in his temples, a sick ache in his gut.

 

He does not want to play any more. He does not want to chase Loki now, not again. Perhaps he should simply refuse, shout and scream for his brother to come back, fling people out of the way until Loki returns to him.

 

There is no point. Loki will not be hurried. He moves in his own rhythms, his own patterns. He will not yield before he is ready, for he is flighty, skittish, wary of his own heart and distrustful of Thor’s.

 

Thor’s wishes mean nothing. He must play Loki’s game. There is no other way.

 

He stalks back into the crowd, but the excitement of the chase has faded entirely into frustration. He is rough in his motions, shoving people aside whenever he is impeded, impatience in every line of his body. He jerks his head left and right as he goes, and the dancers part like water. Despite the mask on his face, he moves with too much purpose, too much self-assurance, too tall and strong for them to resist his forceful approach. They let him through.

 

Thor pushes his way to the other side, heedless of the dancers around him, but when that proves fruitless he shoves his way right back in again. Everywhere he looks there are throngs of people, and at another time he would simply join them and make merry, laughing with strangers as though they were his dearest friends, but he cannot now. Not when he can still taste Loki on his lips, when every moment apart is slowly driving him out of his mind.

 

He never understood the old tales of those who went mad in their longing for love. It had seemed impossible, implausible, too foolish even for him. The yearnings of the heart could be repressed, governed at least by the mind and body if not stifled entirely, and he was proof enough of that. He had suffered in his yearning, but it was a bearable ache, for all its constancy.

 

Now, though, he wants to scream.

 

He strides around the perimeter, but when he sees nothing he pushes back through the crowd. Over and over, he searches the perimeter, searches the crowd, but he cannot find his Loki. He pushes through groups and couples and the mass of writhing bodies again and again, eyes searching, straining, but coming up with nothing. He finds a vantage point, searching the crowd from higher ground, but he sees only strangers. It makes no difference whether he walks or stands still, eyes roving constantly over the mass of people before him, he cannot find Loki.

 

Loki is… not there.

 

A jolt of fear grips his heart, and he wonders if Loki has truly fled, if this is not a game but a rejection, if Loki saw what Thor was offering, tasted it, but did not want it. Fear that Thor has ruined everything, that Loki will never look at him the same way again, that Loki is disgusted, Thor reviled, and Loki will never forgive him for perverting the last ties that linger between them. Fear that Loki will leave him, this time for good. That after tonight, Thor’s heart will break and splinter, shattering into pieces and carrying on the wind in pursuit of his scornful beloved. After the rapture of holding Loki in his arms, pressing kisses to his lips, Thor fears he will never be the same again.

 

“Loki, where are you,” he grinds out, his fists balling at his sides, his breath coming faster and faster.

 

What has he done?

 

He is jostled by a couple giggling past him, but he pays them no mind, rotating in place and searching desperately about in the hopes that Loki will materialise, if only to sneer at him. Anything is better than his silence.

 

“ _Loki_ ,” he says again, and it is every inch a plea, cast to the night skies in the hope that Loki might hear him.

 

He receives no answer. The dance carries on, music and laughter and loud voices carrying on the wind, but no Loki.

 

No Loki.

 

Thor feels ill.

 

He stumbles over to the side, to the very edge of the celebration, slumping uselessly down onto the grass. It is cold, he thinks, wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing at his biceps. It is cold.

 

He leans forward until his forehead rests against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. His stomach is churning, chest tight, his fingers clenching and unclenching uselessly. His breath comes in gasping shudders, and he is tempted to rip the stupid mask off his face, fling it into the dark spaces and never think of it again, forget this night ever happened, but he cannot. Mask or no, Loki knows that Thor loves him with all his reckless heart, but Loki is gone.

 

Loki is _gone_.

 

Thor’s chest hurts so much he cannot breathe.

 

He gasps for air, sitting and shuddering in the shadows, and for a moment he is struck by how foolish he must look, a grown man sitting on the grass at the edge of the clearing, hiccoughing sobs escaping his lips for all the world to see. But Loki is gone. Thor has destroyed their battered relationship with his lusts, for Loki will never trust him again, never accept his affection without suspecting Thor of some ulterior motive, never trust the truth from Thor’s lips. The last tie between them snapped, perverted by Thor’s own hand, and Loki is flown.

 

Loki does not love him back. It pulls a choked sob from his lips. All the long years of yearning and pining and wishing, all the time he has waited, helplessly devoted, hopelessly praying that his affections may some day be returned, that his dearest dream may one day come true. It will never be so. For Loki does not love him back.

 

And there he sits on the ground, made a fool for all the world to see. But what does the world matter, his dignity and pride and all the rest of it, when Loki does not love him back?

 

“Must you keep making that noise?” says a snide voice from beside him.

 

His head snaps up, his heart leaping into his throat with the sudden burst of hope, and Loki is there. _Loki is there_. His head is tilted to the side, face disdainful, haughty in his disapproval of Thor’s expression of weakness. Even now, he is beautiful, so beautiful, and Thor would fling himself forward and kiss Loki’s lips if they were not curled up in such contempt. Loki himself would never sit in the grass, abandoned, and weep.

 

But then, Thor would never abandon Loki.

 

“You are cruel,” Thor says, without thinking, even as his tears dry, wiped away by battle worn hands, all but forgotten in the face of Loki’s sudden return. Loki’s lip twists into a bitter smile, but he does not attempt to deny it. Loki is always cruel.

 

But Thor loves him.

 

He _loves_ him.

 

He thinks he might laugh. He knows he should be angry, _is_ angry, that Loki has toyed with him for so long, watching his distress as though it were a show, observing the effect he has on Thor but incapable of mustering the pity to care. He knows he should be concerned by how easily Loki plays him, Thor’s heart a puppet on strings in Loki’s hands, pulled back and forth with the slightest flick of Loki’s wrists. Mostly, though, Thor is relieved. So relieved it overwhelms him, drowns out any other feeling, anger and fear and pain dashed to salt in the sand.

 

Loki does not hate him. Not completely. Not truly.

 

Thor still has his brother.

 

Loki is rolling his eyes, uncaring of the way he tosses Thor back and forth, spins him round and round, drives him to the height of desperation then brings him crashing back down in a swell of affection in the same breath. Loki is incapable of compassion, cares nothing for the harm he causes as long as his own purposes are served, but Thor _loves_ him.

 

“For pity’s sake, must you be so loud? Keep your voice down,” Loki says, sprawled out on the grass as though he has been there all along, dark hair spilling around his head like water dancing in the wind. His eyes are calculating, and he tilts his head back to show a teasing sliver of his pale throat, as though he means to distract Thor from his temper.

 

He need not bother. Thor is beyond anger, now.

 

He is leaning over Loki in a flash, and Loki’s eyes gleam with his triumph, for there is no mistaking the raw desire on Thor’s face.

 

“You take pleasure in my pain,” Thor says, and if it is a reproach, he cannot truly say. He is already touching Loki, his hands, his arms, his face, mapping the angular lines of his features with his fingertips, tracing the kink of his brows and the softness of his thin lips. Loki moves with his touch, allows Thor to tilt his head and angle his jaw, his green eyes hooded, peering up at Thor through his lashes, all sweetness and innocence. It is a lie, for nothing about Loki is innocent, but Thor’s body floods with heat all the same.

 

His touch trails lower, over Loki’s slender sides, his ribcage. And when Loki does not object Thor’s rough hand grips his knee, trailing up the length of his slender thigh. Thor’s eyes are riveted on his own hand, as though he cannot quite believe what he is seeing, for there is no mistaking the carnal nature of the gesture, the way his breath hitches and his eyes darken as Loki’s muscles move beneath his grip.

 

“Just a bit of fun,” Loki murmurs, and for a moment Thor is thrown, for he almost forgot he had spoken. It pulls him up short, for how many times has Loki said those words? When did they go from meaning light-hearted mischief to something crueller, darker, more vicious?

 

And yet Loki lies yielding beneath him, arms drawn up above his head in a gesture akin to submission as Thor’s hands explore his body. His lips are parted, and when Thor looks up to meet his eyes they hit him like a blow. They glow like embers, seductive and amused and thrilling at Loki’s own power, revelling in how readily his beauty sends Thor mad, glowing with satisfaction and pride and _lust_ , and Thor is falling again.

 

“I love you,” he breathes, voice breaking and rasping, because it is inevitable, inescapable. He says it because he has no choice, the words bursting out of him, words he has bitten back for so long finally overflowing from his breast, spilling out before he can think to resist, all his walls shattering in the face of Loki’s beautiful green eyes.

 

Loki studies him, considers, tracing his eyes over Thor’s masked face. He brings one hand down to caress Thor’s cheek, brushing over the skin where his mask ends, smoothing up his jaw. His fingers dance over the skin of Thor’s neck, over his racing pulse, and a slow smile forms, luxuriates, on Loki’s face.

 

“You do.”

 

It is a statement of fact, and Loki knows it, smile widening, eyes glinting. It is dangerous, _Loki_ is dangerous, but then he always is. It is madness, to want Loki this way, to cherish him above all others, above even Thor’s own life. Another night he would question it, rein it in, for Thor is to be king and he cannot allow his heart to rule his head. He would pull back, _should_ pull back, for Loki smiles like a cat that has cornered its mouse, a wolf closing in on its prey, an eagle swooping in for its last, terrifying strike. Thor should know better, should _be_ better, a prince before a man, a warrior before a lover. He should keep his head level, his mind sober, his secrets guarded.

 

 _Should_ means nothing, now. Not tonight.

 

Thor leans down and kisses Loki, presses him into the ground, one hand still gripping his thigh as Thor nestles between the cradle of his legs. It is too soon, too much, but Thor’s blood is pounding in his veins, his mind already conjuring soft sheets and quiet moans that break the silence of the night. Loki is so warm beneath him, lips soft and giving, body warm and firm as Thor entangles their limbs, leans down until he is all but lying on top of Loki, so desperate to touch him, to _feel_ him, as he has scarcely dared to dream he would ever be permitted. Thor feels all but wild, lost, and he should pull back, push past the animal responses of his body and listen to reason, but it is impossible. Loki is there and willing and beautiful beneath him. Loki is kissing Thor back.

 

“I love you,” Thor breathes against his lips, a hoarse gasp, an oath, his body shuddering and lips aflame. “I love you, I _love_ you.”

 

Over and over he says it, the words tumbling out between kisses, words he has bitten back for so long that when they finally escape they come in an avalanche. He says it for all the times he has looked at Loki and just _wanted_ , to take his hand, to kiss his lips, to press him into the mattress and just _love_ him. For all the times he has found Loki sweetly asleep, rousing and blinking those beautiful eyes at Thor when he murmurs his name to wake him, a sleepy smile crossing his face as open and vulnerable as Loki can ever be. For all the times Loki has ranted and raged, stopping only when Thor stills him, the miserable twist of his lips betraying the hurt he hides behind his anger, betraying the loneliness and isolation and otherness he has felt all his life. For all the moments of quiet contemplation side by side, of laughter, even of anger. For every one of Loki’s secretive smiles, the laughs he could not quite disguise, the playful quirk of his lips as he brushes by that makes Thor want to draw him in close and kiss it from his lips. All those times, he has denied himself. Now the words swell like a tide, spilling unrelentingly from his lips.

 

Loki, though, says nothing.

 

It does not matter. For all his silence, Thor can feel it in his kisses, the way he clasps Thor ever tighter, his fingers gripping and twisting the fabric of Thor’s shirt, his legs caging Thor in against him as though he cannot bear to let him go.

 

Loki says nothing, but Thor can feel it in the desperation of his body, in the press of his lips, in the racing of his pulse. Loki tugs on Thor’s hair, pulling the band free so it spills about his shoulders, running his fingers through it with the urgency of one who has long been denied. Thor can feel it in the passion of Loki’s lips, kisses needy, breath shuddering every time Thor murmurs his love, his adoration, his devotion, all the things Loki has refused himself, refused to admit he needs but has yearned for all the same. Loki kisses him, and Thor hears his love in his lips, every bit as hopeless and desperate as Thor’s own.

 

He wants Loki in his bed, and the surge of desire is dizzying. The fabric between them is suddenly maddening, an intolerable distance. He wants to rip it off, to feel Loki’s skin against his, entwined as they _should_ be, stripped bare of their secrets. His hand tugs at Loki’s leg as they kiss, bringing it up and around Thor’s waist, moving his hand to the back of Loki’s thigh and guiding it, and Loki _lets_ him. Loki might let Thor undress him, he thinks, and he presses down, surges against him in a wave of passion, swallowing a low noise from Loki’s lips. Thor is tempted to try, to reach for Loki’s buckles and laces, loosening them one by one until Loki is naked beneath him, and the thought makes Thor’s breath hitch, his heart stutter, his throat dry. His hand is rubbing Loki’s thigh, his lips are on Loki’s throat, his body is pressed flush against Loki, right between his legs, and Loki is _letting_ him.

 

Yet Thor knows he cannot have him tonight, even as his body screams its protest, demands the pleasure of intimacy, reminds him in a dark whisper that this may be his only opportunity, that Loki will change his mind, that he will deny Thor simply because he can once the spell of tonight is broken.

 

He cannot.

 

Lying tangled in the grass, exchanging kisses by the dim light of the distant bonfire and pale light of the moon, touching and sighing in their stolen corner of the night, is bliss. But it is not what Thor wants, what he needs. Not a shared bed, or joined hands, or a morning after. It is not a promise.

 

He knows full well that Loki may leave him again. That Loki’s kisses, Loki’s love, mean nothing in the face of Loki’s moods and madness. If he must face Loki on the battlefield again, it will be with Loki’s kisses still aching on his lips, with the torment of knowing how gently Loki can touch, caress, embrace, even as he takes the full force of Loki’s blows. Knowing how Loki kisses will be torture enough, a taste into what they could have had if Loki ever wanted it, what Thor would have given him for the rest of their days if Loki had been willing to give the same. It would hurt him terribly, but he would survive.

 

But Thor does not know what he would do, how he would feel, if they made love and Loki left again.

 

Something inside him tells him the blow might be fatal.

 

He forces himself to pull back a little, to slow down, even though it is agony, agony, every fibre of his being crying out for Loki, his heart begging him to take what he is offered at face value, take it as though he can trust Loki. He wants. He _wants_. And he cannot bring himself to stop kissing Loki, stop caressing every part of him he can get his hands on, cannot push himself away even for a fraction of a second.

 

But he slows his kisses, calms his caresses, pushes back his growing passion and replaces it with the tenderest feelings of his heart. He will not, _cannot_ , bed Loki tonight. This, though – gentle kisses and heartfelt murmurs of love – this he can have.

 

At least for now.

 

Loki is pliant and willing, allowing Thor the change in tempo, warm and yielding to his every touch. He does not fight, or even protest. But from the way his eyes glitter, the way his lip is threatening to curl, Thor thinks his reasons may be different than Thor would wish. Loki is only pliant when it serves him, and the moment docility’s usefulness is used up he strikes with the swift savagery of a serpent, lightning speed and fangs dripping venom.

 

Perhaps he is like a serpent, after all. A swan’s attack is one of flurrying, frenzied motion, flapping wings and aggressive pecking of a beak. A serpent, though, need only wait, still and silent. Wait coiled and ready for that split second of time in which to make its final, lethal strike.

 

Then again, perhaps Loki simply defies classification. He is neither Asgardian nor Jotun, too much of both and too little of either. He is neither swan nor serpent, for while he has a swan’s beauty he strikes with the lethal accuracy of a snake, all speed and deadly flashing of teeth. He is kindness and cruelty, warmth and ice, chillingly sane yet terrifyingly mad. And Thor cannot have him, not the way he wants, for to be his husband and lover, his best friend and counsellor, his right hand and his pillar of support, Loki would need to be tamed, somehow, and that can never be so. Loki is, and always will be, a hundred different things all at once. But he will never be tame.

 

Thor knows this, knows all of it, has tried to quell his love only to have it return a hundredfold. Loki has deceived him, betrayed him, wounded him beyond measure, yet he has also brought the greatest delights, tricks and games and stories, has made Thor laugh until he cried, has inspired such love and devotion that Thor cannot imagine a life without him. As Loki himself is inherently contradictory, so too are the feelings he inspires.

 

But then, Loki is hailed as the god of chaos, after all.

 

Their kisses are feather-light now, just gentle brushes of lips. Thor releases Loki’s leg so that he may take one of Loki’s hands in his, entwining their fingers. Both of his forearms rest in the grass, holding some of his weight so as to avoid crushing Loki, but keeping him barely a breath from his beloved. His other hand idly traces Loki’s cheek, occasionally brushing against his mask, sweeping every so often down the delicate skin of his neck.

 

He does not know how long they lie there. Now sensual passion has been forced aside, it is all tenderness and the very sweetest side of his love for Loki. The part of him that wants nothing more than to hold Loki close and simply be, the part of him that wants the comfortable silence of familiarity and trust after long years of love, gentle touches and fond smiles, sleepy kisses and hands that remain forever joined.

 

They lie tangled together, deaf and blind to the party still raging, lost in their own private corner of the world, in each other, and Thor thinks his heart might burst.

 

It is Loki who finally breaks the spell. Thor expects it, of course, for this night must end as any other night, no matter how Thor may cling to the hours of the dark, how he wishes it to go on and on. He could quite happily die here in the grass with the thud of music in the air and Loki in his arms.

 

It is not to be.

 

“It will be morning, soon,” Loki murmurs, lips swollen and dark hair mussed. His expression is uncharacteristically gentle, almost dazed, as though he is as overwhelmed as Thor, as blindsided by the intensity of his feelings. His eyes are sleepy, satisfied, glowing not with cruelty but with some sweeter emotion, and Thor cannot resist taking another kiss, tracing his fingers down Loki’s elegant jaw, tilting it back with nothing more than the brush of his fingers.

 

“Mmm,” is his only response, for he is once again distracted by the elegant line of Loki’s throat. He presses a slow kiss against it, inhaling, breathing in the smell of Loki’s skin. It makes Loki sigh, the tiniest of sounds, breathy and vulnerable and honest, openly taken pleasure from Thor’s attentions, and Thor’s chest aches with warmth swelling in his chest.

 

“We should stop,” Loki says, and with those words he seems to be coming back to himself, back to his darker thoughts, his eyes sharpening and lips hardening into a straight line.

 

It was inevitable. But Thor wishes they could just stay here forever.

 

“No we shouldn’t,” comes his well-reasoned reply, and he cannot resist kissing the junction of Loki’s neck and shoulder, trailing kisses slowly back up to his jaw line, taking everything he can get.

 

Loki snorts, but it is over now. Thor’s time has run out. With a move too quick for him to catch, Loki bodily overthrows him, sending him tumbling onto his back. Just like that, it is done. There is a grim twist to Loki’s lips, and it is painful to see his happy smile and glowing eyes drown once more in a tide of bitterness, as though all his cruelty has come rushing back to him in one inexorable wave, malice and resentment settling once more in his chest. Thor watches as the brother he knew, the man he fell in love with, is suffocated, all light and love and hopefulness stripped from his face, ripped from his chest, and Thor can do nothing.

 

It does not matter, he thinks fiercely, to drown out the sudden ache of loss in his chest. It does not matter. He held Loki for hours, touched him, kissed him, and Loki touched him right back. He made Loki smile again, made him feel warm and loved, if only for a few hours. He swayed Loki’s heart, if only for the briefest respite. He has done it once, distracted Loki from his darker musings with nothing but the love Thor holds in his heart.

 

He can do it again.

 

He has to.

 

“The morning comes, and this game must end,” Loki says. His mask is in place again, cold and imperious, but his hair is mussed, lips swollen, skin still warm from Thor’s touch. Thor wonders if Loki smells of him, if Loki will press the fabric against his face and inhale when he returns to his chambers, wonders if it will please him, for all he acts unaffected.

 

“It was no game,” Thor says. His voice is rough, but there is no mistaking the emotion on his face. Loki looks away, a shadow of some complicated emotion flickering in his eyes before he can avert them, but Thor saw it. He smiles, and if there is something rueful in his face he cannot be blamed.

 

“Good night, Thor,” Loki snaps, icy and somehow pointed, as though he means it as a barb. His tone is prickly, his posture changing, drawing in on himself, shutting Thor out. But Thor knows why, understands as best he can, tries not to let it hurt him. Loki turns cold as a means of defence, uses anger as a shield. Thor can wait him out.

 

Loki turns on his heel and stalks away, head held high and proud. In the blink of an eye he has disappeared, vanishing into the lingering remains of the crowd, slinking into some dark corner where Thor’s eyes cannot find him.

 

Thor closes his eyes, swallows, a crippling loneliness welling in his chest at Loki’s loss. It is pathetic, he thinks. He does not fear solitude. But the approaching, lonely dawn is a pang in his chest, a coldness in his heart.

 

It cannot be helped. Loki will not be rushed, and Thor must make peace with that.

 

He stands, brushing himself off. His fingers dance around the edge of his mask, hesitant, unsettled, but finally he pulls it off. He stares at it, all brilliant red and gold, wonders if he should toss it away, but he already knows he will not. If nothing else, it will remain a memento of this night. And perhaps, he thinks, it will brighten him in the storm that is sure to come, for Loki will be as furious with Thor as he is with himself, lash out because he feels vulnerable. He will be cruel, vicious, as spiteful and hateful and mad as he has ever been, but Thor can wait him out.

 

He has no other choice.

 

Loki is Loki is Loki, trickster and liar and killer, but Thor knows what truly lies in the very depths of his heart. Knows that Loki is weak for Thor, just as Thor is weak for Loki. Loki may not have said the words, but Thor heard them nonetheless.

 

Thor gathers himself, begins the long walk back to the palace, hair loose and wild about his shoulders, red mask still gripped in his hand. He returns to his responsibilities, dons the mask of prince once more. He wonders what his parents would say if they knew how he spent this night. Wonders if he and Loki were recognised, if someone had paid attention as they danced, if even now word is travelling back to the king. He wonders what the court would think, would whisper behind his back. Wonders if it would mean his ruin.

 

Still, a smile spreads on his lips, happiness blossoming once more in his heart. His lips still tingle with the feel of Loki’s lips, his hair is mussed from the stroking of Loki’s fingers, his clothes rumpled from the wandering of Loki’s hands. Loki loves him, he thinks. Loki _loves_ him.

 

All the rest is sand tossed into the sea.

 


End file.
